


Blue Suns

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond Has Beautiful Blue Eyes, Fluff, M/M, Q Gets Drunk, The Dubious Mythos of James Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:59:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3133673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Q gets spectacularly drunk and gives a decidedly haphazard treatise on Bond's eyes.</p><p>(Bond does not blush.  Oh no.  Double-0 agents do not blush.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Suns

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the 00Q facebook group. I'm very late, but life happens. Enjoy!

Invitations for the MI6 Winter Assessment went out on the first of December.  The cards, heavy card stock embossed with curly black print, appeared on every desk in every department sometime between the hours of midnight and two in the morning.  The Prime Minister didn’t like the thought of an annual holiday party—a Christmas party was out of the question because of the religious aspect—on the grounds that it didn’t constitute the “spirit of such an institution” as MI6, so the old M, God rest her soul, had devised the “Winter Assessment” to take its place.  

The Winter Assessment was the same every year.  Departments heads were the designated hosts.  Attendance, at least for the beginning, was absolutely mandatory.  A set of three questions (1. Are you still alive? 2. Can you outdrink a double-0?  3. Can you prove it?) were asked.  After that, it was a free-for-all of food, alcohol, and holiday cheer, all expenses paid under the guise of an “assessment”.

When he found his invitation sitting at his workstation at 0700 sharp, Q used his pen knife to slice it into thin shreds that he carefully rolled into coils and arranged on his desk before going to work.

At 1000, Q saw someone approaching him from behind by way of a conveniently placed monitor with an ultra-reflective screen.  He scowled, knowing full well his approacher couldn’t see.

“You know, it’s customary to ask the host if they would like to host before sending out invitations on their behalf,” Q said, adjusting his glasses.  He did not turn.  “Miss Moneypenny.”

“Company policy,” Moneypenny said, moving into his field of vision to hand him a thick dossier.  “It was in your contract.”

“I believe I informed M that I would not be following through on the matter.  I’m quite busy.”  He gestured over his shoulder at his desk.  Through his monitor, Q saw Moneypenny run a finger across the desk, underlining the design that he’d made there.

“Is this the invitation I worked so hard to put together?” she asked.  Q made a noncommittal noise.  “I must say, spelling ‘NO’ in capital letters isn’t specific enough.  For all I know, you could be saying ‘NO’ to a raise.”

Q allowed a slight smile.  “I thought it conveyed my intentions clearly enough.”

“You’re coming.”

Q’s shoulders sagged.  He finally turned around.  “Why?”

“Don’t be a brat about it.”

“Field agents don’t have to go.”

Moneypenny rolled her eyes and rested her hands on her hips.  “Most of them do.  Some don’t, but that’s because they’re on assignment.  You’re not, and as department head you don’t handle ops, so you’re free.”

“And if a global crisis arises?”

Moneypenny’s smile was blinding.  “You’ll be permitted to leave, of course.”  She turned to leave the department.  “Of course, if you instigate any acts of terrorism yourself to get out of this—“

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Q promised, lying through his teeth.

“You know, 007 said those very words last year,” Moneypenny said, “in the exact same context.”

“And what was the outcome?”

“Ultimately? The South Sudanese Civil War.”

* * *

“Not worth it,” Tanner said.

“Not even a little one?” Q asked.

“Not even a little one.”

Q frowned and sat back.  “I thought it was a good idea.”

“Threatening to start a small-scale war to get out of coming to the holiday party—“

“Winter Assessment,” Q coolly corrected.

“—can hardly be considered a good idea.  We don’t want a repeat of two years ago.  Do you have any idea what Moneypenny will do to you?  I’ve seen those shoes.  I don’t want to be on the receiving end, yeah?”

“Two years ago?”

“007 tried valiantly to get himself an assignment — I think there was an op on in Damascus at the time, not double-0 level.  When that didn’t work, I heard that he snuck across the Channel and evaded eight French police troops in a bid to disappear.  I don’t know what M did, but she marched into the Assessment with him in tow.  He had a nasty black eye, if I remember.”

“Yeah,” Q said slowly, doubtful.  “Still, a party full of people I don’t care to know, a few grounded field agents, and maybe a double-0 or four?  I fail to see how that’s a party.”

One of Tanner’s eyebrows went up as his lips quirked into a smile.  “I’ll bet you don’t.  You haven’t seen how the double-0s get when they’re really sloshed.  When I first joined up?  I got the best lay of my life courtesy of the Winter Assessment.”

Q instinctively leaned back.  “Are we really having this conversation?”

Tanner’s smile said that he was far away.  “Worth it,” he said.

Q gave the fakest, widest smile he knew how to make.  An ex-boyfriend had once told him never to do it again because it made Q look like a serial killer.  “You’ve seen Miss Moneypenny’s shoes?  You know, I made those shoes.  Do you know what they do?”

Tanner’s face bleached as he came back to reality.  “I got the gist, yeah.”

“I’m thinking of making her another pair.  I’ve got one myself.  Not heels, but—“

Q had never seen a grown man run away so quickly.

* * *

“007’s coming.”

Q picked up his head from where it rested against his desk and allowed gravity to take over.  The resulting thump was most satisfying.

“Q?”

“Miss Moneypenny,” Q greeted, speaking to metal mesh of the desk.  “I do hope he’s not coming here now.  I do believe I’ll kill him.”

“Are you two fighting?  What’s that even like?  I’d pay for tickets.” 

Q forced his head upright so that he could give her his strongest glare.

Moneypenny just chuckled.  “I wouldn’t come down here to tell you that Mr. _Bond, James Bond_ was coming to visit.  I do actually have a job.”

Bleary, Q pushed himself off of the table.  “Then to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“007 has just returned from his assignment.  He has five mandatory days of leave.”

The gears in Q’s brain whizzed as they tried to discern the utility of this information.  “So he is coming down here.  Wonderful.  Did I mention that I might kill him?”

Moneypenny sighed.  “Yes, you did, and yes, he’s probably coming here now.  He always comes here, now that you’re Quartermaster.”

“I know.  He’s a thorn in my side.”

“A well-built, attractive thorn, that,” Moneypenny said.  “Come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t thought about caving one of these days.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.”

Q continued to glare.  “He is attractive to some,” he said, avoided the point.  “What did you come here for, then, if not to warn me?”

“I said he has five mandatory days of leave.  Q, it’s the twenty-first.”

“The twenty-first,” Q repeated, “of December.”  That meant two days until the dreaded Winter Assessment, and then—

“007 is going to be grounded, here, for the Assessment,” Q said.  “He has to come.”  Moneypenny’s grin was feral.  “Why are you so happy about this?”

“Oh, double-0s make everything more interesting,” Moneypenny said.  “You haven’t been here long enough, but you’ll see.  Have you seen the questionnaire yet?”

Q laid his head back down on the table in lieu of response.

“You’ll love it.  You might even get laid.  Did Tanner tell you about the time he hooked up with not one but two double-0s on the same night?”

Q hit his head against the desk.

* * *

Even without his monitor, Q knew Bond was coming.  He could tell the agent’s footfalls from those of anyone else who came through Q Division.  Several factors contributed to the uniqueness: there was Bond’s height, for one thing; he had a longer stride than anyone except for Q himself and M, who rarely ventured down except to oversee an unusually important operation.  He wore a certain type of shoe, too, which sounded against the tile in a particular way.  Bond liked his heels sharp around the edges, and the resulting echo was different.

As such, Q heard him when he came in, and knew when he stopped in front of his desk.

“I take it you’re not a party person,” Bond said smoothly.  Q shivered and covered it with a sip of hot tea as he turned to Bond.  He kept his face neutral.

“007,” he said.  “No, I’m not one for parties.”

“That’s unfortunate.  I understand you’re one of our designated hosts,” the agent said, sitting on one corner of the desk, legs sprawled and spread obscenely.

“Get off,” Q said, gesturing with his mug.  “You’ll knock something over.”  Obediently, Bond rose.  He smirked at Q.  “Did any of your equipment manage to survive, or is this a social call?”

“Both,” Bond said.  His voice was soft and low.  He reached into his jacket and extracted not only his Walther (only two shots fired) but also his radio, his earpiece, and, miracle of miracles, his car keys.

“It’s not Christmas yet, 007,” Q said.  “You’re a few days early with your miracle.”

Q reached for the gun, and Bond’s hand clamped down on his.  “I’m hoping for something like that,” Bond said.  He glanced around, then looked back to Q.  Q fought the rising flush on his face.  “Come to dinner with me.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Bond said.  He slid his phone over to Q.  He’d typed a message that he hadn’t sent.  Q scanned it quickly: _Away from Moneypenny’s bugs._   Gingerly, he took back the phone.  “Dinner, tonight.”

“Why?” Q asked.

Bond’s smile was brilliant.  He leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted against the shell of Q’s ear as he whispered, “Just to talk.  Just you and me.”

Q pulled away.  “Right,” he said, picking up his mug.  He didn’t remember setting it down.  There was a look on Bond’s face—Q didn’t look him in the eyes, that was the one thing he _could not do_ right now—but Q could read enough to know the smugness that rested there.  “Right,” he repeated.

“1800,” Bond said.  “I’ll pick you up from the lower lot.”

“Right,” Q said again, entirely ineffectually.  Bond tapped Q’s desk with two fingers, then turned and left.

* * *

“You want to  _what_ ?”

“It shouldn’t be too hard.  All I need is—“

Q hit his head against the headrest.  He’d met Bond as planned in the lower lot.  Several Q Division technicians had watched Q on his way out, for he rarely finished his projects on time for the end of his shift, but he pretended not to notice their stares.  Bond, for his part, hadn’t so much as stopped to pick him up as swung the door open and dragged Q onto the passenger seat whilst still rolling.  From there, Bond floored it.  Q would have found the speed pleasurably exhilarating if he didn’t have to try to hold a civil conversation _sans_ innuendo with one of the most dangerous men alive.

“I would say great minds think alike, but I rather don’t feel like complimenting you,” Q said.  “I gave this exact plan to Tanner two weeks ago.”

“And?”

“He shot it down.  Compared it to some fiasco you tried to pull off two years ago.”

“I fail to see the connection.”

Q sighed.  “I think he felt that starting an armed conflict abroad was comparable to nearly starting a war between England and France,” he said.  “Not that we really needed another one of those, anyway.”

Bond frowned.  “That was three years ago,” he said, “not two.  “Tanner must be slipping.  The year before last, there was an inconvenient incident with an American photographer and the Crown Prince.  I was in Washington, D.C. for the last few weeks of the year.”

“You must be joking.”  Bond smiled.  “Someone get this man an autobiographer, his mythology runs rampant.  I still side with Tanner; it won’t work.”

Bond gripped the steering wheel.  “I’m not going,” he said.

“Believe me, I don’t want to go, either, though I’m told that I’m contractually obligated,” Q said.  His mobile vibrated.  Though biologically improbable, Q could have sworn that his pulse reset itself.  “Bond,” he said.

“What, we’ve graduated to a last-name basis rather than job titles?”

“You’ll want to see this,” Q said.  He held the mobile out for the agent.  Bond’s eyes ran over the screen, taking in the message.  It was from Moneypenny: “ _Neither one of you are getting out of this. For the record, the photographer was four years ago.  You’re the one who’s slipping, old man._ ”  He tossed the mobile back to Q and fingered the gear lever.  

Q didn’t know how fast Bond’s vehicle of choice could go, but within seconds, Q was fairly certain that they were nearing maximum velocity.  He shut his eyes and tried not to think about car accident statistics.  

“Damn her,” Bond spat.

“Agreed,” Q concurred.  “What a mess.”  Bond didn’t say anything more.  Q sighed.  So much for that.  He hadn’t even gotten any food out of the deal.

* * *

The night of the Winter Assessment, it was -4 degrees and windy.  Q would have gleefully donned every sweater he owned before so much as considering stepping foot outside, but MI6 tradition mandated a formal dress code.

Contrary to popular belief, Q owned several nicely tailored suits.  Nearly no one knew about them because he only used them for specific situations.  There was the Wedding Suit, the Funeral Suit, the I-Need-To-Impress-My-Interviewer Suit, and, of course, the Party Suit.  The latter had only been worn once before.

Q tugged at his collar and eyed himself in the mirror of a bathroom just off of the atrium set up for the Assessment.  He cut a nice silhouette, to be sure.  He ran a hand through his hair and scratched at the back of his scalp.  As usual, his hair was a lost cause.  His palms were soaked through with sweat, and fairly soon his starched collar would start to sag.  He leaned against the counter until he heard the door swing open, then quickly stepped into the party.

* * *

Q’s plan was simple.  He would walk around and be seen by several people who could confirm that he did, in fact, show up.  He would look surly enough that no one would come near, and escape while no one was looking.  That way, he could be faulted for nothing except a disagreeable nature.

The force of nature otherwise known as Eve Moneypenny had other plans.

“Well don’t you look dapper,” she said, coming up behind him.  In her heels, she came very close to looming over him.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m walking,” Q said.  “You know, milling about.  That’s what people do, isn’t it?”

Q didn’t like the look of Moneypenny’s smile.  “Well, socializing generally goes hand in hand with milling, don’t you think?  Come on.”  She grabbed his hand.  “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.  Have you had anything to drink?”

“Not on your life,” Q informed her.

“Oh, we can fix that.”

Moneypenny hauled Q over to the bar.  “Champagne, please,” she said.

“Not a chance.  I’m not having a drop of alcohol, not here.”

Moneypenny smiled.  It was nothing short of predatory.  “Fine.  Get him a nice eggnog then, will you?”

“Moneypenny…”

“Relax,” she said.  “You said no alcohol.”  The bartender handed Q a glass.  Q sniffed it.  It smelled all right.  “Look, unless someone spiked it—and I’ll be having words if they did—you’re fine.”

Q downed it in one go as Moneypenny dragged him toward a group of people he was fairly sure he’d never met before.

* * *

Q’s world was red, gold, and green bokeh floating in a sea of voices.  As the waves came in, they washed over him and bathed him in radiant light.  He could just make out snippets of conversations about things that he knew he should probably understand, but before he could grab hold of any one of them, catch part of the sea in a glass, the waves receded and drew away into the distance.  His feet and his hands, if he still had feet and hands, were tingly and moving entirely of their own accord.  Once again, Q thought he should maybe do something about it, but then again, maybe not.  He felt  _nice_ .  Light.  Perhaps someone had altered the gravitational field and doubled the supply of oxygen.  He felt alive, though very much sedentary.

The waves came back in, and Q picked out Moneypenny’s voice.  She sounded absolutely furious, and she was directing all of that fury at someone — Q tried to pull that voice, too, but the sounds were disappearing again.  When they came back, someone was saying, “I swear, I didn’t think he’d—“

“Don’t even,” Moneypenny said.  Q groaned.  Her voice was sharp when she wanted it to be.  “Oh, Q?  Q, are you still with us?  Open your eyes.”

Q made a face, and someone laughed.  “They are open,” he tried to say.  It came out sounding a little different, but he was sure the meaning got across.

“Uh huh.  Open them a little more,” Moneypenny said.

Q tried.  The red and green vanished, replaced nearly entirely by gold.  “Bright,” he said.

“Yes, it’s quite bright.  Would you like to move someplace a little darker?” Moneypenny asked.  Q nodded.  He could just make out someone else laughing, then there were hands under his armpits — he laughed, because _armpits_ seemed such a funny word — and they were moving.  The sea of voices felt like a literal sea: he was immediately disoriented, losing track of where Moneypenny’s voice came from almost as soon as he was moved.  The waves tossed him, and his head lolled from side to side.

Light gave way to dark.  Shapes around him became silhouettes, and the unfocused lights that had been his rainbow suns disappeared.  Instead, there was a blackness pierced by two impossibly blue spheres.  He reached to take hold of them with the hands he was not sure he still possessed, and he whimpered when they drew away.

“Here,” Moneypenny said.  She spoke from all around him.  A glass of solid ice was pressed into his palm, possibly the hand that had been extended.  “Drink.”

Q knew better, even in his disoriented state, than to argue with Moneypenny, though he briefly considered informing her that one did not drink ice.  The glass was pushed towards his face, and he found himself drinking not ice but water.

“This is a terrible idea,” someone said.

“James?” Q asked.  His utterance was either too incomprehensible or too softly spoken to catch anyone’s attention, and Q could fairly well see the name disappearing into the darkness.

“Oh, because you specialize in those,” someone else said.  Tanner, if Q had to guess.  His mind was coming back, slowly, slowly, but the waves were retreating much faster.

“James,” Q said again.  Once again, the waves crashed over him, drowning him out.  He continued to speak anyway.  Even if they didn’t understand, there was no real reason not to talk.  Talking was wonderful, yes, especially when the twin blue suns were back.  “Reminds me,” he said, reaching out a second time.  “Such a pretty blue.  Just like blue diamonds, all cold and beautiful and worth every last penny.  Can’t look at them most of the time because they’ll freeze you and he’ll catch you and he’ll _know_ …  Too beautiful to be real, but they are.  He’ll know, and he can’t know, but he will anyway… But they’re the most org—gog—gorgeous hue.”  Q nodded to himself, or thought he did.  At any rate, he tried to nod to himself.  The suns disappeared for what seemed like a millennia only to reappear, slightly further away.  Q frowned.  There appeared to be pink dots underneath them.  “It’s not fair,” he said.  “Not fair.  Come back…”

The sea came back in, roaring with a furious intensity that left Q grasping for where he thought his ears might be.  Someone grabbed at him again, and the blue suns with their pink dots were so very, very close.  Brightness drowned out the dark and the suns and everything else, and Q shut his eyes.

“Can’t see them now,” Q said.  “Want to.”

Something rumbled next to his ear, and Q shivered without knowing why because he was pleasantly warm.  In fact, he was getting warmer with each passing second.  There was a heat source nearby, and he curled in towards it without being entirely sure which side of his body it was on.

Real darkness overtook him, and he slept.

* * *

Q woke to a clear white expanse.  He smelled citrus, and his stomach turned in mutiny.  He tried to pull his head from wherever he was, only to discover that he had spontaneously generated a second heart in his head, one which was proceeding to smash its way through his brain and skull.  His mouth was drier than the Namib, and he had the unusual urge for crêpes with cream and strawberries.

All signs pointed to the obvious: he was very hungover.  He slapped a hand over his eyes, and the pulse behind his eyes intensified.

“Finally awake?”

Q groaned.  “You’re the last person I want to see, 007,” he said.  His own words sounded harsh to his ears.  Why did everything have to be so bright and loud?

“I wasn’t aware that you could actually see me through that sheet,” Bond said.  Q clawed at the space in front of his face and pulled away the fabric.  He regretted it not a moment later, as he came face to face with what he imagined cosmic rays would look like were they visible.  He flipped himself and buried his face in what he soon discovered to be a comforter.

“I don’t want to see you at all.  Get out of my flat,” Q muttered.

“It’s not your flat, it’s mine.”

“Adverse possession requires years,” Q said.  “It’s mine.”

“I didn’t realize you wanted to move in with me quite so much.”

“I don’t,” Q said, punching the pillow.  “I don’t want anything to do with you and your…self,” Q settled on.  He could nearly feel his brainpower seeping away, assuming he had any to begin with.

A hand ran down his back, and Q yelped as if he’d been set on fire.

“Hush,” Bond said.  “You feel like shite.  Take it easy.”

Q nearly agreed, then stopped himself.  “Why do I feel like shite?” he asked slowly.

“What was that?”

Q lifted his head, groaning when his head throbbed in retaliation.  “Why do I feel like shite?”

“A pest by the name of Bill Tanner decided that that spiking eggnog with something sweet and quite strong was a splendid idea,” Bond answered.  “You seem to have had a lot of it.  By the time I got to you, Moneypenny and Tanner had dragged you to a storage room and were trying to figure out what to do.”

The events of the Winter Assessment filtered back.  There were people, and more people, and a good deal of eggnog, and then the darkness and—

“Shite,” Q said, flopping back into the pillow.

“Indeed,” Bond said.  “I brought you back here.”

“And you stayed?”

“It is my flat.”

Q rolled and cracked an eye to look about.  Definitely not his flat.  He groaned again.

“Now, now,” Bond said.  “It isn’t all bad.  You got out before you made a complete fool of yourself.”

“Do I still have a job?” Q asked.

Bond smiled.  Q wondered if he was still drunk.  “Yes.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I’d be concerned if you did.”

Q made to sit up, and Bond pushed him back down.  “You need to rest,” he said.

“Personal experience?” Q asked.  Bond smiled again, and Q thought, yes, he was still quite drunk.  “Water,” Q said.

Bond handed him a glass, then reached across him to grab something that Q belatedly recognized as a buzzing mobile.

“My dear Moneypenny,” Bond said.  There was something on the other end, and Bond said, “Yes, he’s still alive.  You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find Bill Tanner at this time of day, would you?”

Q drank his water and eavesdropped, but his mind refused to stay focused.  He was very, very preoccupied with the thought of crêpes.  He tried to think when he last ate, but other than the few hors d’œuvres he assumed he’d had at the Winter Assessment, he couldn’t remember.

“What day is it?” Q asked.

“You’ve been asleep for twelve hours,” Bond said, tilting the phone away from his rather strong jaw.  

“Oh,” Q said, and then _oh_ , he was not only late for work but late for everything.  He tried to get up, but Bond had a grip on him that would not relent.  With the new angle, though, Q could hear Moneypenny better.

“I saw it,” she was saying.  “Commander James Bond, serial seducer and agent provocateur extraordinaire, _blushes_ when everyone’s dear boffin compliments his eyes.”

“I did not _blush_ ,” Bond said.  “I’d had a few drinks, though not nearly so many as _everyone’s_ dear boffin.”

“Bullshit,” Moneypenny said.

“You nearly sounded American.  Tell me if Tanner ever shows up again.  We’ll be having a lovely conversation.”

Apparently finished with Moneypenny, Bond tossed the mobile aside.  “If that’s one of ours,” Q warned.

“Of course not,” Bond said.

“I’m still drunk,” Q announced.

“Unlikely.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I was unaware that you had to be drunk for me to smile.”

Q’s mouth might as well been one of Bond’s beloved cars because once it started, it ran about as fast as it could go without cease and without regard to consequence.  “No, but you only smile when I’m incapacitated or asleep because you don’t smile.  Agents don’t smile.  Or when you do you don’t mean it, but you look like you mean it so I’m hallucinating you or I’m dreaming or both, because they don’t have to be mutually exclusive.  I wouldn’t know because of your eyes.  Have I told you about your eyes?”

Q’s explanation came to a halt when his brain threatened to explode.  He writhed against the sheets, feeling his once-neatly-pressed suit constricting his arms and torso.

Silence stretched long enough that Q thought he might slip back to sleep.  He nearly forgot that Bond was still there, until, “James.”

“What?”

“Last night, you called me James.”

Q forced his teeth to clamp down on his tongue.

“I liked the way you said it,” Bond said.  “I liked the way your eyes light up when you said it.”

“I like your eyes,” Q said ineffectually.

“I like your eyes, too,” Bond said.

A moment passed, and Q remembered something else.  “Moneypenny was right,” he said.  “You did blush.”

Bond pulled away, but the smile did not leave his eyes.  “I did nothing of the sort.”

“Yes you did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Bond attempted to level him with a glare, but for all Q felt terrible, he also felt strangely indestructible.  Some mad, squirrelly part of his mind thought that if he had survived the Winter Assessment with enough alcohol under his belt to take him all of the way down, he could survive anything.

“Though some more water might change the story,” Q granted.  Bond’s smile was growing.  “And maybe some crêpes.”  Q’s face didn’t feel quite like his own yet, but he remembered how to smile, and he pulled a small one.  “James.”

“Q,” Bond said.  Q felt indescribably warm.  “Crêpes can be arranged.”


End file.
